


Far From Any Storm

by stardropdream



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragon Age Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Battle Couple, Grey Wardens, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mages (Dragon Age), Minor Violence, No Familiarity with Dragon Age Required, Qunari, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23684956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: Keith has long since accepted that he's never going to see Shiro again. That is until they meet again on the Storm Coast... but a lot has changed in the years since they've seen one another.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 76
Kudos: 226





	Far From Any Storm

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing a Dragon Age AU for sheith literally one year ago and then left it sitting for months and months. Finally spruced it up enough to yeet it into the world. 
> 
> My HOPE is that you don't need to be familiar with Dragon Age to enjoy this fic! All you really need to know is that it's a fantasy game. 
> 
> My beta suggested I define some of the terminology; I did my best to explain it within the narrative (without being exposition-heavy), but:   
> \- Fade: Dreamscape, basically; this is where demons live and while a mage dreams, the demons will tempt them to give their body as a vessel for more power.   
> \- Blight/Darkspawn: Basically the games zombies; the Blight is a disease that infects the living and eventually kills them and turns them into Darkspawn (which can also be created by other means that aren't relevant to this story).   
> \- Grey Wardens: An organization dedicated to eradicating Darkspawn and ending Blights.   
> \- Qunari: Fantasy race from the game, basically people with horns and (varying shades of) grey skin.   
> \- Templars: Responsible for keeping mages imprisoned in a Circle (tower for mages). 
> 
> Like I said, I try to make that all clear enough in the fic; I mean, in the end, the main point is that sheith are in love (spoiler alert). 
> 
> (And thank you, as always, to [Meg](https://twitter.com/kedawen) for the beta read!)

Keith hates the Storm Coast. 

Not just for the perpetual dampness, not for the air rotting with elfroot and spindleweed, not for the Waking Sea’s insistent misting against his face or the way it creeps beneath his armor and leaves his joints aching. 

He hates the Storm Coast for its unceasing headache. He thought the job would be a simple mission when he accepted it from a man in Redcliffe: retrieve some stolen goods and return as quickly as possible. There and back again. Instead, he’s had to outrun a giant, narrowly avoid some Templars, and he’s fairly certain he just missed some Darkspawn if the smell of rot means anything.

Keith’s ready to rattle out of his very horns. He can handle bandits and their dulled swords. Maker, he can handle Templars if he must, but by the time the sun is sinking below the horizon on the first day on the sea (Keith supposes it’s sunset, at least— hard to see it through all the gloom and mist), Keith is so exhausted he barely has the energy to pitch his tent. 

“With my luck, I’ll be eaten by a bear,” Keith mutters to himself. He’s pretty good at identifying bear territory— and he knows there’s bears on this coast because _of course there are bears on this coast_ — and he’s taken care to avoid any caves or crags in the rocky hills. 

Which means he’s pitching his tent out in the open, tucked within some straggly trees. Hardly the best from a strategic sense. If he’s not eaten by a bear, he may just be ambushed by bandits in the night. 

Keith hates the rain. It makes his horns itch. It’s the least of his problems right now, but it’s still a nuisance. At the very least, he has some horn balm in his pack, but right now his priority is setting up his tent and getting a fire going. 

Fire’s always a risk. He can only hope that the smoke will get swallowed up by the rain and the night, preventing anyone from finding his camp and setting upon him in the night. Regardless, Keith doubts he’s getting much sleep. 

All this for some blighted _stolen goods_ , too. Keith’s never taking odd jobs again. He doesn’t care how much he needs the coin. 

He’d probably find better jobs if he went to Orlais or Kirkwall. Keith hates going to Orlais— the masks freak him out and he hates being called _little runt of an oxman_ in those insipid accents. And Kirkwall—

Well. It hurts to go back to Kirkwall when Shiro isn’t there. 

Keith slips the last stone into its circle and ignites the damp sticks collected within. He feels his magic sing through his veins and the fire bursts to life easily. Keith shoves down the whispers in the back of his mind, the Fade licking at him for the use of magic. Using his magic is always an invitation the demons can hardly resist, but he can’t be damned to try to light a fire the proper way in this incessant wet. 

Sitting before the fire, he feels only emptiness. 

But that’s always the result of thinking of Shiro— gone from him but never far from his thoughts. Even if he were planning to sleep, he knows it won’t happen now: the demons in the Fade will narrow in on that one thought and twist it beyond mercy. Shiro. Shiro, gone from him. 

Keith hates to dream, hates when he’s pulled into the Fade. There, the demons always know to wear Shiro’s face, know if anything were to tempt him into becoming an Abomination, it would be because Shiro asked it of him. In his dreams turned nightmares, Shiro begs Keith to save him, to use his magic and the powers given to him by demons in order to protect him. 

So far, Keith has been strong. He wakes each night after a Fade nightmare sobbing for Shiro, but the waking world always reminds him of what he knows but hates to accept, hates to even think: 

Shiro won’t return. 

-

The night stretches onward. Keith doesn’t sleep. 

But it feels like he’s dreaming as he stares into the fire, thinking about all those countless nights he used to travel along the Wounded Coast with Shiro, how they’d gather together close to keep warm, building a little fire in the mouth of a cave. The Wounded Coast was nothing like the Storm Coast, but Keith’s sure he’d have liked it all the same, so long as he was with Shiro. 

Shiro would always tell him stories— endless stories, it seemed, of so many different people and places. Keith loved learning them all, memorizing them all, but most of all just loved hearing Shiro’s voice. 

They were friends. Keith never liked Kirkwall, never liked how obviously he stood out: too small to be a proper Qunari, but too Qunari to ever be human like his father. Keith knows nothing of the Qun or where his mother’s people come from. He grew up only knowing fighting. 

He was relatively good at that, at least, although without proper training. He was small and that made him a good rogue. He got better with Shiro’s help, too— learning how to wield swords thanks to Shiro. 

Keith never belonged anywhere until he found his place at Shiro’s side. 

Most of all, though, Keith remembers that last night together, watching the stars over the Waking Sea, knowing that Shiro would leave the next day. It was their last night patrolling along the Wounded Coast and Keith remembers exactly how the moonlight felt.

Remembers Shiro turning to him with a smile that softened his eyes. How he’d cupped Keith’s cheek and, feeling bold, Keith had kissed him. 

Remembers how Shiro kissed him back. 

-

It’s hard to hear anything distinct on the Storm Coast. Keith hears the waves from the sea in the distance, hears the rustle of the trees from the bitter coastal wind. Animals moving in the night. The thump of the giant in the distance as it, too, settles for the night. A dragon’s shriek. Rocks falling off the edge of a cliff. He’s sure if he listens carefully, he’ll hear bandits or bears approaching him because that would be just his luck. 

But then he does hear something. A grunt in the distance, the clash of weapons. 

It makes Keith whip his hand out and immediately extinguish the modest fire and plunging him back into darkness. His entire body tenses up and he listens again, waiting for a sound, any sound. 

It takes a while, but he hears it again— a cry of pain, a person not an animal, and then the sound that runs Keith’s blood cold: the call of a Darkspawn. 

Darkspawn, the blighted creatures that destroy everything. Keith’s known stories of the Blight and what Darkspawn can do, what they can be, but he’s interacted with them very little. That’s usually left to Grey Wardens, after all.

Keith knows he has two choices here— stay or flee. The sounds are getting closer and he can hear Darkspawn crawling just over the crest of the hill, shrieking. Keith can smell the stench of death in the air. He should run away and protect himself. That would be the smartest thing to do.

But Keith was never very smart. 

He grabs his weapons and shoves his way up the hill, running towards the sound of fighting. He has no idea what he’ll find once he crests the hill, no idea how many Darkspawn there are, who it is they’re attacking— bandits, maybe, or Templars, which would, again, be just his luck. Save some people only to be robbed or, worse, discovered for the magic-using Apostate he is and captured by the Templars. 

Keith sinks into the night, lets it surround him and bathe him in the quiet. He’s easy to overlook like this. Impossible to see. He slows his pace to something quieter, something easy to mistake for breeze. He is the night itself. He is a rogue, and no one can see him. 

It's far worse than Keith could have guessed. When he crests the hill, he’s faced with a swarm of Darkspawn and one lone Grey Warden in the center of the horde, swinging his sword in a deliberate arc, relying heavily on his shield to block the snapping jaws of the blighted creatures as they crowd ever-closer. 

Keith doesn’t let himself think. He’s shadow and dark— he darts forward and sinks his daggers directly into the Darkspawn about to swing its crumbling blade down into the Grey Warden’s back. 

It gives a hitching shriek before it collapses into ichor. The Grey Warden turns his head, peering at Keith through his helmet’s visor, but Keith doesn’t give him time to respond or say anything, already diving forward to shove through the other Darkspawn, kicking them back, slamming his blades into their yawning chest. 

The Grey Warden follows his lead, flanking Keith as they work through the rush of Darkspawn. It’s not the easiest fight Keith’s ever had, but it’s not the hardest, either. There’s something achingly familiar about fighting side-by-side with someone, something Keith has done so rarely in the years following bandit-hunting with Shiro. 

It’s a brutal fight. They just keep swarming. Keith hesitates, feeling his magic singing in his veins. He doesn’t have a staff, can’t channel deeper power, but he’s used his blades a few times to summon powerful magic when he needed to. 

He glances at the Grey Warden, fighting but looking fatigued, all movements slowing. Keith can’t imagine how long he’s been fighting these things alone. 

Keith takes the risk— he digs his heels into the ground to feel the mossy power of the world itself, and drags on the Fade, summoning it closer. 

With a wave of his hand, he sends a barrage of fire in a concentrated row, bowling into the remaining Darkspawn. They shriek, convulsing through the Fade-summoned flames, far brighter and harsher than any mortal flame. 

By the end of it, by the time the last of the creatures are felled, Keith’s covered in the putrid black of Darkspawn blood and he cringes thinking of the headache it’ll be to clean his armor and weapons later.

He turns towards the Grey Warden when he hears him grunt. He watches the man fall to his knees, shoulders sagging beneath the weight of his sword and shield. 

“Hey—” Keith says, moving to him. 

Up close like this, Keith can see that the Grey Warden’s not as unaffected as Keith assumed. The man presses a hand to his side, bleeding a dark red through the blue and white weaving of his armor. He’s been stabbed in the places between the paneling of the metal plating. 

Keith curses, reaching for him just as the Grey Warden starts to tip forward. Keith catches him just before he collapses and he feels the Grey Warden tremble in his hands and then go still.

Fear seizes through him. He feels the lick of the Fade in the back of his mind, creeping closer, smelling death, smelling desperation, the demons ready and eager to make a deal. _Save him. Will you let him die?_

Keith rips the man’s helmet off to assess— to check for breathing, to check for a pulse. The man doesn’t respond, passed out from the injuries. 

But with the helmet off, Keith feels his heart stop— when he _sees_ the Grey Warden’s face. Not just any Grey Warden.

_Shiro._

-

It’s a struggle to get back to Keith’s tent. Shiro would be heavy even without his armor, but even with Keith’s Qunari strength, he fumbles his way back towards his tent and his supplies— stumbling over his boots on the way.

He gets Shiro to his tent and lays him inside carefully, torn between just ripping his armor off and taking care not to disrupt any other injuries he might not be aware of. He bites into the cork of one of his potions and coaxes Shiro’s mouth open to drink it. 

It helps with the immediate issues, although blood loss is a real concern. That, plus the danger of an infected wound. Keith does his best to clean the one at his side and dress it with his meager supplies, but it’d be better if he could find a legitimate healer. Not likely when they’re this far from any cities. 

Keith hovers over Shiro, unable to even fully comprehend or process that it’s _Shiro._ But it is, it absolutely is. 

A Grey Warden. Of all the horrible things Keith feared had happened to Shiro, he’d never guessed that he could have been drafted into the Grey Wardens. 

But it is Shiro. Keith would know him anywhere— would know him by touch, by sight, by memory alone. Keith’s heart never stops beating faster as he hovers above him. 

He might look different than before. There’s the scar slashed across his nose, the deeper scars carved all over his body. His hair’s grown out, tied back into a bun and streaked with silver. He’s bigger, too, wider and taller, bulkier with added muscle. 

He’s missing an arm. It took half the walk back to the tent for Keith to realize. As he carried Shiro to his tent, Keith realized that he wasn’t merely gripping the shield— it was strapped to a false arm. 

Keith peels off his armor and reveals the stump halting mid-bicep. He must have lost his arm in a battle long ago now based on the scarring: old, faded, but painful.

Keith’s heart breaks to think of all that’s happened to Shiro in the time they’ve been separated. 

Shiro’s immediate medical needs attended to, Keith has nothing to do but wait hovering by his side. It’s still damp and wet and dark around them. Keith is still bone-tired and fighting back against Fade whispers. 

But he can’t sleep. He knows he won’t be able to. Part of him, perhaps, fears that _this_ is a Fade dream— that this is an extensive dream created by a demon. That, eventually, Shiro will wake up and ask him if he’s willing to do anything to keep him alive. Keith will need to wake himself up or fight a demon wearing Shiro’s face, sobbing the entire time. 

Keith’s hand falls to Shiro’s bare chest, feeling the steady bump of his heart. 

He bites his lip. He’s never been one to pray— Qunari have no such religion, he thinks, and even if they did, he never knew it. He was never one for Andraste or the Maker. He thinks that Shiro never was, either, despite being human. He knows that Shiro rejected the life of a Templar long ago— never once even considered joining their ranks. (“Never,” he once told Keith vehemently when Keith asked. “I could never do that to another person… I couldn’t live with myself.”) 

Regardless, Keith never takes his eyes off Shiro.

-

The night before Shiro left, the night they first kissed, Keith remembers promising: “I’ll be here when you get back.”

And he remembers Shiro answering, “Then I promise to come back soon.” 

Keith kissed him more after that, again and again, as if afraid that Shiro would decide to stop kissing Keith, too.

Keith remembers Shiro cupping his face, staring into his eyes, and whispering, “I love you. Don’t be afraid.” 

And Keith never felt afraid, not that entire night they held each other. He still remembers the way Shiro kissed him— his mouth, his jaw, his horns, his pointed ears. The smattering of kisses following the curl of his horns until, laughing, Keith yanked him in for more kissing. 

It was the last time Keith can remember being truly happy. 

It was only after Shiro was gone that Keith realized he never actually said the words back. 

-

Shiro starts to rouse a few hours before sunrise. His eyes open and close a few times, blinking awake without seeming to recognize where he is. He says nothing, only breathes out, and falls back into unconsciousness. 

He isn’t running a fever and he doesn’t refuse the water Keith coaxes him to drink, gulping down only the smallest sips. 

Keith holds his breath when, as sunrise stains the weathered hide of Keith’s tent translucent, Shiro’s eyes open and stay open. Keith hovers, terrified, suddenly, that Shiro will not remember him, will not recognize him, will think he’s in danger with someone who means him harm.

“Keith?” Shiro whispers, voice croaky with disuse and cracking with disbelief. 

“Shiro—” 

Keith can’t even say anything else. Shiro’s hand finds his cheek and holds there, slotting perfectly against the line of his jaw, just like it did years ago. Keith’s heart stutters in his chest and he feels himself go breathless. 

“Shiro,” Keith says again, softer this time. 

“How are you here?” 

Shiro tries to sit up then and flinches as he’s spiked with pain from the wound in his side. Keith hisses in sympathy, hands falling to his shoulders to keep him flat on his back.

“Don’t move,” Keith says. “You were injured last night.”

Shiro cringes and his hand finds Keith’s, fingers curling tight around his wrist. “You— you fought, too, didn’t you?” 

“Of course I did,” Keith says, brow furrowing. “I wasn’t going to leave you like that—”

“You didn’t get any of the blood in your mouth, did you?” Shiro asks, alarmed. “You didn’t get any in open wounds? You— Keith, you cleaned yourself off, didn’t you?” 

Keith’s sure the mess of his clothes speaks for itself. He’s left his armor outside the tent, but his underclothes are just as stained Darkspawn-black. His focus had been Shiro, making sure Shiro was okay. He’s fairly certain he didn’t get any blood on his face, though, his cowl protecting him well enough. 

Shiro looks beyond alarmed now. His eyes are wide, his cheeks pale. “Keith—” 

“I’m okay,” Keith insists. “Focus on yourself.” 

“ _Keith,_ ” Shiro says with a fierceness that he so rarely used on Keith, before. He grips Keith’s wrist tight. “Please.” 

“I didn’t,” Keith answers, his voice softening as he covers Shiro’s hand with his own. “I’m okay, Shiro. I promise. It’s not my first time fighting Darkspawn. I won’t be blighted.” 

He’s hardly an expert, of course, but saying as much seems to finally relax Shiro. He looks less haunted, although the fatigue doesn’t quite leave his face. Now that Keith looks, he can see that despite the bulk of Shiro’s figure, his cheeks are a little hollow, with heavy bags under his eyes. 

Keith’s throat closes around all the words he wants to say, everything he’s held inside himself wanting to speak to Shiro again. And now Shiro’s here and he feels paralyzed, unsure what to make of the man lying there before him. 

Most of all, he wants to throw himself at Shiro— but resists for the wound in his side and for the time that’s passed. He doesn’t know if he’d be welcomed now. 

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Keith says, and his voice sounds too thick, his eyes misting over. He must look a mess. He squeezes Shiro’s hand. “Shiro…” 

Shiro smiles then, wan and a little disbelieving himself. He leans back on the bedroll and lets out a breath. He takes his hand away, but only so he can feel over his side, tracing the bandages Keith’s wrapped around his torso. 

“I gave you a potion,” Keith says. “And dressed the wound as best I can. You should see a healer, I think, but—” 

“But we’re in the middle of nowhere,” Shiro says and smiles. “I have some supplies at my camp. I can go get them.”

“You’re not moving from there,” Keith insists. “I’ll get it for you. Tell me where it is. Do you have companions with you?” 

Shiro shakes his head, breathing out. “No. No, I’m alone.” 

Keith frowns. He doesn’t think that’s typical— Grey Wardens tend to move in units and groups, or at the very least partners and trios. 

Shiro peeks behind Keith’s shoulder and out through the flap in the tent. “What about you? You’re not on your own are you?” He looks back up at Keith, frowning. “Mercenary group, maybe? … A lover?” Shiro pauses and then looks down. “Or— or other friends, I mean.” 

Keith sits there, unsure how to respond to the words. He busies himself by fetching his water pouch and unscrewing the cap, guiding Shiro’s head up to drink. It’s enough of a distraction for Keith to try to read the way Shiro asked that. _A lover._ He can’t tell if Shiro wants him to have one here or not. 

The truth is, of course, that Keith’s heart was Shiro’s since the first moment they met, since the first moment Shiro looked at him and saw someone worthwhile. 

Maybe it’s too much for Shiro to consider that could still be the case, so long apart. 

Once Shiro gets his fill of water, he gently pushes the pouch away. 

“Tell me where your supplies are,” Keith says. “I’ll get them for you.” 

Keith unfolds his rudimentary map of the Storm Coast— out of date and far too damp from rain, leaving some of the ink running and blurring together. He waits patiently as Shiro squints at it and indicates, roughly, where his camp is. 

“Stay here,” Keith says, hand pressing down on Shiro’s chest when he tries again to sit up. “Rest. Please. I’ll be back soon.” 

Shiro looks like he wants to protest, but it only takes a firm look from Keith before he falls quiet. Keith makes sure the water pouch is nearby. He hates to leave Shiro like this, but medicine is more important, and if he goes quickly he’ll be back before midday. 

He leaves Shiro’s sword beside him, just in case.

-

Keith remembers the way Shiro looked in the moonlight, how it looked shining in his dark hair and his grey eyes. 

He remembers the way Shiro laughed, grabbing Keith by the horn to guide him in, kissing him sweetly and calling Keith beautiful. Before that moment, Keith had never thought of himself as beautiful, had never heard anyone call him so.

-

Keith makes quick work of the hike to Shiro’s camp. It’s a modest campsite, much like Keith’s, with a tent and an abandoned firepit to mark its presence. There’s also a mat with a drying rack on it, where Shiro might have hung clothes or meats before but is empty now. 

He packs everything into the bag he finds tucked inside the tent and hikes back to his tent. His heart’s in his throat the entire time he’s away, only breathing out and shoulders untensing when he crests the hill to find his tent still standing, no signs of attack. 

“I’m here,” he calls, just to make sure he won’t startle Shiro when he pops the tent open and slinks inside, heaving down Shiro’s pack and plucking out the potions he kept near the top specifically for ease of unpacking.

“Welcome back,” Shiro says, looking more alert. He’s managed to prop himself up in Keith’s absence, leaning back against a pile of furs. 

Shiro accepts Keith’s fussing, taking the potion and sipping it with a grimace as Keith examines Shiro’s wound, cleaning it and applying fresher bandages. With their resources pooled, there’s enough bandages and potions to help Shiro through the next couple days, Keith thinks, which is also a relief. He spreads some elfroot salve across Shiro’s torso, ignoring his shiver from the coolness and the small hiss from the sting. 

“Are you hungry?” Keith asks afterwards. “I can make us a fire. I have some meat saved.” 

“Sorry to trouble you,” Shiro says. He says it lightly, but there’s something hidden in the tone, something leaking out from behind his smile. 

Keith shakes his head, opening up the tent so Shiro can watch Keith as he works at the fire. He hesitates, uncertain, the magic of his fire humming beneath his skin. Shiro doesn’t know he has magic, doesn’t know he’s an Apostate now. 

He could blame it on some tempest powers. There are some rogues who can harness the powers of the elements to keep them in bottles for battle. It takes alchemy and tinkering, but it’d give Shiro plausible deniability. 

It isn’t that he doesn’t trust Shiro. But Keith’s magic is still too new, still unruly in so many ways. Keith doesn’t know how to show it without being terrified. In so many ways, the magic still doesn’t feel like his— it was born from despair and it only ever makes Keith feel empty. 

He struggles through making the fire by hand, the dampness of the sticks taking time to dry out through lots of coaxing. When Keith unhunches himself from all fours, blowing on the curling embers until they bloom to life, he finds Shiro’s eyes steady on him. 

Keith crawls back into the tent to dig through his food supplies, taking stock of what he has. He might be able to go out and hunt something— he saw some mountain rams in the hills— if Shiro needs something fresher. 

Shiro doesn’t say anything as Keith cooks some vegetables he’s saved, making them tender before giving them and some dried meat for Shiro to eat. 

Shiro fights back a smile. “This feels familiar.” 

“What?” 

“The way you’d stare at me so intensely whenever you made me food,” Shiro says and then eats.

Keith feels himself blush. He used to cook for Shiro on their trips out to the Wounded Coast. Not because Shiro wasn’t capable of cooking or providing himself, but because it was the one small thing Keith could think to do as some form of payment and thank you. 

“You remember that, huh?” Keith says. 

“Of course I do.”

Silence falls after that. Keith feels awkward, unsure what to do with his hands until Shiro gently reminds him to eat, as well. 

“Keith,” Shiro says, after a lengthy silence, watching Keith place another log on the fire. Keith pauses, glancing at him, unsure how to place the tone. “Will you tell me how you came to be here?” 

Keith snorts, his heart all twisted up. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” 

“I asked first,” Shiro says. “But if you don’t want to tell me—”

“Maker,” Keith mutters, cursing, and settles into his spot beside Shiro’s bed mat, crossing his arms. “Why wouldn’t I want to tell you?” 

“I’m not the boy you knew,” Shiro says. “I’m probably a stranger to you now.”

Keith scoffs. Loudly. He can’t even bite it back before it’s out. Shiro looks momentarily stunned, and then his smile twitches at the corner of his mouth, tentative and sweet. Just like Shiro used to smile when he was trying to hide his amusement.

It’s true Shiro looks different, but Keith sincerely doubts that so much would have changed about the man he loves that he would be beyond recognition. That he would be a _stranger._

“I left Kirkwall,” Keith says. “Obviously. I mean… there wasn’t anything left for me there after—” He pauses, his breath hitching. “After.” 

Shiro nods. His single hand fiddles with the furs Keith draped him in, each movement methodical but betraying Shiro’s uncertainty. He never did have a poker face to Keith. 

“I traveled around a while. Joined a few groups but nothing that stuck,” Keith says. He crosses his arms. “Just doing an odd job here and there. Just trying to get by. I, um— I found my mom.”

Shiro blinks and sits up straighter. “Keith— that’s amazing.”

“Yeah,” Keith says. “It’s— yeah. We were right… She’s Tal-Vashoth. Left the Qun, met my dad, worked with a group, got stuck in Tevinter for a long time. But we’re… yeah.” 

“And now look at you,” Shiro says. “Have you gotten taller?” 

Keith shrugs. “Still too short to be a real Qunari.” 

Shiro shakes his head. “I’m happy for you, Keith.” 

It’s simple, easy. From anyone else, Keith would reject it. From Shiro, he knows it’s true— can see it in the way Shiro smiles at him. 

“And— and you,” Keith says, creeping closer. His hands find Shiro of their own accord, testing the strength of his bandages, then sweeping the long hair away from his face, studying his eyes. “Shiro… you have to know I looked for you, I— if I’d known—” 

Shiro breathes out, a soft, hitching sound. “You never got my letter, then. If you left Kirkwall.” 

Keith makes a sound. “No. No, what letter?” 

“I wrote you one, to tell you I was okay. That I was alive. To not worry, I—” Shiro ducks his head, laughing in a soft, heartbroken sort of way that cracks Keith open. “I could never know if you got it. Correspondence from the Wardens moves so slowly and I couldn’t know if it’d ever find you.” He reaches for Keith then, his one hand resting again Keith’s shoulder. “Keith,” he says, “I looked for you, too. The Wardens passed through Kirkwall a few months back and I— I tried to find you.”

“I was long gone,” Keith says, covering his hand over Shiro’s.

“I know,” Shiro says. “I just… All I could hope was that you were okay. And here you are—” 

“You, too,” Keith says, his voice going breathless. “You’re okay. You’re _alive._ ” 

Shiro’s smile dims then, his expression turning almost to stone. It terrifies Keith to see the change fall over him so suddenly, a small involuntary noise punching from his throat. 

“I _am_ dead, Keith.” Shiro sighs. “Becoming a Grey Warden isn’t a mercy… it’s just a prolonged death sentence.” 

Keith knows that’s true. Anyone in any of the lands of Thedas has heard the tales of the Grey Wardens— their fight, their victory over the Darkspawn. Their continued, never-ending sacrifice to stand on the front lines. Most Grey Wardens die fighting the Darkspawn, or down in the Deep Roads, their bodies too blighted by whatever it is that gives them the power to stop the Darkspawn. 

It somehow doesn’t occur to Keith until this moment that what Shiro says is true: he is a Grey Warden. They are ghosts, severed from the lives they once lived. 

Keith touches Shiro’s face then, thumbs tracing the corners of the scar that slashes across his face. “What happened, Shiro?” 

“The journey… it went wrong. I’m not sure how much you heard about that.” 

Keith shakes his head. “Only a little. Only that— there were no survivors.” 

Shiro looks down. “A few of us survived, but barely. We were ambushed by Darkspawn. We became blighted… from the blood. We were going to die, and didn’t only for some Grey Wardens finding us and taking pity.” Shiro’s silent for a long time. “It’s how I lost my arm. It’s… In any case, I was the only one to survive the Grey Warden’s initiation.” 

“Shiro,” Keith whispers, hushed. 

He’s uncertain if Shiro welcomes his touch. He moves, shifting, ready to pull back. But Shiro’s hand finds his wrist, covering it gently and squeezing, keeping Keith pressed there against his cheek. 

“I should have been with you,” Keith says in a cracking whisper. “I could have protected you.” 

Shiro chuckles, an equally quiet sound. “You were always so fierce… But, there was no way we could have known this would happen. If you’d been there, Keith, you’d either be dead with the rest of them or dead like me.” He squeezes Keith’s wrist. “I wouldn’t wish this on you. Never.”

“That’s my choice to make,” Keith says. He jerks his chin up. “What now, Shiro? I’ve found you— I’m not about to let you disappear again.” He leans in closer, hoping there’s no mistaking the fire in his eyes. “ _Never._ ” 

“Keith—” 

“Take me with you,” Keith says. “I’m not leaving you again. You can’t make me.” 

Shiro smiles, although it’s still too sad, nothing like the bright sunshine smiles Keith remembers. “I know I never could.” 

“At least you remember that much,” Keith says. He digs through his pack and pulls out the last of his potions. “Shiro… Drink this.” 

Shiro does without protest, seemingly because he knows better than to protest, grimacing once again at the taste. 

“You should rest,” Keith says. “We can speak more later.” 

Shiro smiles a little, letting Keith guide him onto his back once the potion is empty, lying out with a deep sigh, his body sinking beneath the furs. 

“This is familiar, too,” Shiro murmurs. He closes his eyes. 

-

When news reached of Shiro’s death, Keith’s magic awakened. It was brutal and all-encompassing. One moment he was sobbing and screaming, unwilling to accept that his worst nightmare could have happened and the next moment he was engulfed in flames— not burning him, but born from him. 

Keith hadn’t known or cared he housed such power— rare for someone to meet their magic at such an age without any signs before it. It didn’t matter. Keith’s flames tore through him like mourning, sobbing out of him and destroying everything. 

By the time Keith came to again, the Templars were closing in around him to imprison him to the Circle, to destroy the Abomination if necessary, if that was indeed what Keith had become. 

He’d escaped, if barely. He knows he can never really return to Kirkwall. 

Ever since that day, his dreams are thick with the Fade, demons wearing Shiro’s face tempting him with power, with longevity, with the ability to find him. 

_I love you, Keith,_ the demons always say in Shiro’s kind voice, never quite capturing the gentleness, _Why haven’t you found me yet? Why aren’t you strong enough to save me?_

-

Keith dotes on Shiro throughout the day. By the evening, Shiro’s breathing is calmer, less labored, and Keith stops worrying that Shiro’s rib has stabbed into his lung. The bandages don’t bleed through this time and Keith’s grateful to know that the wound is improving thanks to the salves and the potions. 

They’re quiet, mostly. Keith has the distinct impression that Shiro is studying him, trying to memorize him. Keith wonders what he sees— if, somehow, he’s changed a lot, too. 

“Are your horns bothering you?” Shiro asks quietly when Keith scratches at the base of one for the second time in several minutes.

Keith blushes. “Oh. Um.” 

Of course Shiro remembers that, too. 

“Do you have any balm?” Shiro asks. “I can help you. Like— like before.” 

Keith remembers that— nights in Shiro’s home or on the Wounded Coast, brushing Keith’s hair away from his horns and helping spread the balm over his curling horns. It was always blissful when Shiro did it for him, especially when he played with his hair afterwards. 

“You don’t have to.”

“Please?” Shiro asks. “You’ve done so much for me, I— I feel really useless. Let me help you.” 

Keith can never refuse Shiro, not when he asks like that. Keith swallows down and fetches the horn balm from the bottom of his pack. He untwists the lid for Shiro and hands it over, uncertain if he’ll view even that action as an insult.

But Shiro only smiles at him and pats the spot on the furs between his legs, spreading them to make room for Keith to sit. 

Keith comes to him, crawls on his knees and settles there before him. He ducks his head, his hair falling forward and feeling strangely shy. The unspoken hovers between them, their last night together shimmering like a dream. 

He thinks about what it felt like to kiss Shiro. How it felt for Shiro to kiss all over him. How it felt to be in Shiro’s arms, the two of them moving together and giving one another pleasure, nestled between furs not unlike the ones they sit on now. How long it’s been since then. It feels like a lifetime ago. Like a dream. 

Shiro’s slower now, with just the one hand. It takes longer for him to brush all the hair away from Keith’s horns, especially now that Keith’s grown his out. Keith takes a deep breath and bundles his hair up behind his head for Shiro once he finishes tucking it all away, and holds it there. 

Shiro’s thumb ghosts across his temple. It makes Keith shiver. 

Shiro dips his fingers into the balm. He remembers the amount to take— only a small dollop needed. He remembers, too, just how to concentrate the touches. He focuses on the base of Keith’s horns first, working into the spots where skin meets horn before he sweeps upward, working the balm into all the grooves. 

Instantly, it feels better. Keith didn’t realize how much his horns had been itching until he feels the difference beneath Shiro’s hand. 

Keith makes a sound. He knows he does. The softest sigh, the tension leaching out of him. When he remembers to open his eyes, Shiro’s watching him, his expression unbearably fond. 

They don’t speak, then. Keith watches Shiro as he concentrates, the way his eyes stray first to where his hand works over Keith’s horns and back to look into Keith’s eyes. When he smiles, it’s tentative, not quite as bright as when they were younger, but still just as sweet.

“Better?” he asks.

Keith nods. “Thanks, Shiro.” 

Shiro finishes, twisting his fingers around the last tip of Keith’s horns, letting his touch linger before dropping away entirely. He cleans his hand off with the scrap of cloth Keith offers him. 

Keith waits, uncertain. He keeps his head bowed, letting go of his hair so it goes tumbling back to frame his face. 

He sighs out, blissful, when Shiro’s fingers curl through his hair, brushing it gently. His thumb rubs slow circles over his scalp. 

“This was always your favorite part,” Shiro says with a laugh. 

“Yeah,” Keith says, voice croaky and rusted out. He looks up at Shiro, scooting a little bit closer. “Shiro…” His throat closes up when he says, “I’ve missed you so much. _So much._ ” 

“Keith,” Shiro whispers, his hand gentle in his hair. Then, voice lower, “Dear one.”

Keith feels his face flood with warmth, his heart stuttering to a halt in his chest. “Shiro—” 

Shiro meets his eyes, something tentative and shy there, as if he’s unsure of his welcome. He must find something, though, must see it in Keith’s eyes. 

Shiro’s smile is melancholy as he takes up Keith’s hand where it rests against his knee. He sweeps his thumb over Keith’s knuckles and then brings it to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss there, first to his knuckles, then, as he turns Keith’s hand over, against his palm.

It’s so arresting a touch that Keith forgets to breathe, staring with wide eyes. 

“You are still beloved,” Shiro says, breath fanning over Keith’s skin. “I— I never stopped.” 

All words escape Keith. 

Shiro smiles, mistaking the silence as he looks away. “I’m sure it’s— it’s so long ago now,” Shiro says quietly. “I’m sure you’ve moved on, but— but, Maker, Keith. I’m so happy to see you.” 

Keith doesn’t wait for him to say anything more. He flings himself at Shiro, only just managing to brace himself before he crashes straight into Shiro’s injured torso. He cups Shiro’s face and kisses him.

It feels just like that night on the Wounded Coast— that desperation, the sharp inhale of Shiro’s breath just before he kisses Keith back. Keith feels more than hears Shiro sigh his name against his lips. 

And then his hand tangles tight in Keith’s hair and drags him in closer, kissing Keith like he can’t fathom anything else. Despite the force of Keith’s kiss, Shiro is hesitant when he kisses back, just a gentle press of his mouth to Keith’s. 

Keith licks into Shiro’s mouth and he hears Shiro gasp, feels himself go breathless in turn. Shiro cradles the back of Keith’s head, kissing him sweetly, then slipping up to curl around one of his horns, changing the tilt of Keith’s head to kiss him deeper, plying every sound and breath from Keith’s lungs. 

“Shiro,” Keith begs, his voice graveled out. 

When Shiro starts to draw away, Keith just chases after him and kisses him harder. It’s all he can focus on for a time, the simple slide of Shiro’s mouth against his, the gentleness of his breath, the hush of his teeth over his bottom lip. Gentle, always far too gentle with Keith, never treating him like he’ll break, but like he is worth treating kindly.

When Keith finally breaks the kiss, it’s only so he can gasp out, “Shiro— _Kadan._ ” 

Shiro blinks at him, looking dazed, his hand still hooked around Keith’s horn. “What?” 

Keith cups Shiro’s face, his voice husky when he murmurs, “I love you, too. I never— I’m sorry I didn’t say it that night. I wanted to. I— I _love_ you. I’ve never forgotten you.” 

He’s robbed Shiro entirely of breath, it seems. Keith watches his eyes widen, staring at Keith with undisguised shock. Keith mourns it— hates to think that in all these years, Shiro somehow doubted Keith’s love for him in return. For Keith, holding Shiro’s love tight in his chest like a torch has been one of the few things fueling him onward. 

“I love you,” Keith says quietly. 

“Keith,” Shiro whispers. “Oh, Keith.” 

Shiro kisses Keith then, more heated this time, and pulls Keith down into the furs with him. Keith makes a sound, bracing himself quickly over Shiro so he doesn’t crush against his injury. But Shiro hardly seems to notice or care, pulling Keith down and kissing him with purpose. 

-

They rest in the furs together long after the chill of the evening starts sliding against Keith’s naked skin. He curls in closer to Shiro and sighs gently when Shiro nuzzles into his hair. It feels so much like years ago, but deeper now, less desperate for leaving. 

There’s still too much on the horizon, maybe, but Keith can remember that elation that night on the Wounded Coast. He feels shadows of it, here, feels that small kindling of hope in his chest that they might be happy again. Together. 

“I’ll need to get us more water,” Keith mumbles against Shiro’s shoulder.

Shiro plays with his hair, curling and uncurling a strand around one of his horns. “You can conjure water, can’t you?” 

“Mm?” Keith hums, tracing his fingertip over Shiro’s chest, mimicking the movement of Shiro with his hair.

“With your magic.” 

Keith freezes. Then jerks back to look up at him, mouth agape. “Y— you know about my magic?” 

Shiro huffs a breath, looking at him. “Was it a secret? I saw you use it when you were fighting the Darkspawn.” 

Keith fumbles, unsure how to answer that. He realizes he’s trembling only because Shiro reaches for him properly, sliding his hand over his shoulder, up his neck, and cupping his jaw. 

“Dear one,” he says. “You know you’re safe with me.” 

“I— I know that,” Keith says quickly, stumbling down closer to press a kiss to Shiro’s mouth as a promising punctuation of the sentiment. He breaks the kiss quickly, pressing his forehead to Shiro’s with a fumbly sigh, eyes closed. “I just… I didn’t— it’s new. I wasn’t hiding it from you before.” 

“I know that,” Shiro says. He presses a kiss to Keith’s mouth. “I… I heard rumors.”

“Rumors?” 

Keith cracks his eyes open to peer down at Shiro. Shiro regards him carefully, brushing his hair back from his face. “Of when you first used your powers… I heard about it when I arrived again in Kirkwall.” 

Keith cringes. “They still remember it, then.” 

“Very much so,” Shiro says. “I asked what became of you and your home… if I could find you, maybe. But the information was limited.” He plays with Keith’s hair, his expression turning melancholy. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” 

“I broke our promise,” Shiro says. 

Keith shakes his head, pressing Shiro’s hand over his heart, so he can feel the pounding of it beneath his palm. “Shiro,” he whispers. “ _Kadan._ You came back to me. And now we’ll never part.” 

Keith doesn’t know what the future holds for them. Keith will follow Shiro’s path and become a Grey Warden if necessary, if it means they’ll always be together. He’ll follow Shiro into the Deep Roads when the time comes, if he must. It won’t matter. All that matters is that the rest of his life is by Shiro’s side. 

Shiro smiles at him, tentative and unbearably kind. As Shiro has always been. 

“Yes, Keith,” Shiro says.

-

Keith remembers the first day he ever met Shiro. They were both young, far too young to be alone, but Shiro had been kind. 

Keith had been stuck on one of the roads of the Wounded Coast, ambushed by Tal-Vashoth bandits. He’d certainly have died if Shiro hadn’t come along and saved him. 

It hadn’t been the first time Shiro saved him. Keith knows it won’t be the last, either. They’ll save each other, however many times as is necessary.

-

The next day, Shiro insists gently that they should keep moving. Keith knows it’s true, knows that their camp isn’t a prime location and they’ve lingered too long. He’s loathe to start moving so quickly when Shiro is still injured.

“I’ve had worse, Keith,” Shiro says and undercuts the pain of those words— the images it summons up in Keith’s mind— with a soft kiss. 

Keith helps Shiro dress into his armor again. He packs up camp, shoving most of the supplies into his own pack to lessen Shiro’s load. He helps Shiro mount his false arm with his shield and sheath his sword for easy drawing should they encounter dangers. 

“You don’t have a staff, as well?” Shiro asks as Keith sheaths his daggers at his back in their usual location. 

Keith shakes his head. “I’m— um. I’m untrained. I don’t really channel it too well… it’s why I don’t use it often.” He shrugs. “I’m better with my blades.” 

Shiro nods, accepting the answer. Their hike from the hills is slow-going. Keith scouts ahead to make sure they don’t encounter bandits or Templars roaming the coastline. It means picking through the craggy hills, which makes them move slower. 

“Where are we headed?” Keith asks. 

“Orlais,” Shiro says. “I was on my way there when I was waylaid. I’ve been trying to get out of Ferelden for months.” 

Keith snorts. “Who isn’t trying to get out of Ferelden?” 

It makes Shiro laugh and it’s worth it to hear that rich sound. It’s impractical to hold hands while hiking, but Keith does it anyway— finding Shiro’s hand and squeezing it gently. He smiles helplessly when Shiro squeezes back. 

They pause midday to eat and refill their water pouches at a stream. Keith helps Shiro unstrap the shield again so he can sit and rest on a large boulder. Once settled, Keith nods and stomps a few steps into the water to start scrubbing away the Darkspawn blood from his armor. 

They pass the moments in quiet. But then Shiro asks him, “Did your mother teach you Qunlat?” 

“What?” Keith asks, looking up from scrubbing his armor with pebbles. 

“You called me _Kadan_ ,” Shiro says. “That’s Qunlat, isn’t it?” He shrugs. “I didn’t think you knew any.” 

“I only know a little,” Keith admits, suddenly feeling shy. 

He fiddles with his hair, letting his wet hands slick it from his face. There’s no reason for him to feel so shy— he loves Shiro and Shiro loves him in turn. They found each other in this horrible world. He doesn’t need to be shy about this. 

Keith feels his face warm as he takes a deep breath, his heart galloping in his chest. “I—” he murmurs. “I don’t… I don’t know Qunlat. Hardly. But.” 

“But?” Shiro prompts, ducking his head down to meet Keith’s eyes. 

“I know this one. It’s… Yeah. It means…” he trails off, blushing. Shiro smiles at him, though, fond and sweet just as he always looks at Keith. Keith licks his lips. “It means ‘my heart’. _Kadan._ ”

“ _Kadan_ ,” Shiro murmurs back, testing the word. He smiles. “That seems strangely romantic of the Qun, doesn’t it?” 

Keith nods, inching closer. He lets Shiro grab him by the wrist and pull him in closer. Keith slides easily into the spot Shiro makes for him between his legs. 

Shiro smiles up at him, head tilted. 

“It is,” Keith agrees. “It’s not always romantic. Just… a bond.” He brushes the hair back from Shiro’s face. “Shiro, you’re— you’re that. To me. You’re my heart.” 

Something fragile flickers over Shiro’s face, his eyes going glassy. He lifts his hand and finds Keith’s, threading their fingers together. 

“I wish I could offer you a better life than this,” Shiro says, voice quiet. He looks up at Keith again, smiling. “Keith. You’re…” 

He shakes his head and then leans up into Keith’s space, pressing a kiss to his mouth, slow and gentle. Keith’s quick to stoop down to meet him. 

“ _Kadan_ ,” Shiro whispers against Keith’s mouth. 

It feels good to hear it in Shiro’s voice, to hear it said back to him. It makes Keith shiver. The word itself sounds like a heartbeat, two steady pounds of his heart in his chest. A heart that is Shiro’s. 

Wherever they might go, Keith knows it’s at Shiro’s side. He knows that there’s nothing, no force on this Earth, that can pull him from Shiro’s side. He knows the dreams will be much worse now, will tempt him with ways to protect Shiro no matter what. 

He will do anything, any number of things, for Shiro. Always. He’ll never leave himself unspoken again, never let a moment pass where he doesn’t breathe his devotion to Shiro.

“ _Kadan,_ ” Keith says back, and it’s a vow as much as a title.

**Author's Note:**

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